


i'd be honored (if you'll have me)

by sarcastic_fina



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: A collection of prompt fills for Jaime/Brienne.[1] lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up[2] a hoarse whisper, "kiss me"[3] routine kisses[4] top of head kisses





	1. lazy morning kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **timeline** : directly follows their first night together in 8x04 (and completely disregards how much the show derailed their progress after that, because wtf?!)
> 
>  **side-note** : since this is my first time writing these two, i find i usually write a couple that are mostly a character study and less about dialogue, so excuse the lack of it here. this is me exploring them and getting the feel for who they are before i dive deeper into prompts and get the hang of their speech patterns.

Should she ask, his excuse is quite simple. He knows her well enough that when she wakes, she’ll startle, make excuses, return to her respectful use of ‘ _Ser Jaime_ ,’ which is far from how he likes to hear his name spilt from her mouth, not after hearing her heartfelt cries last night. He’s not sure he ever wants to hear her say his name any other way. Rather than wait for her inevitable regret, followed by embarrassment and excuse-making, he chooses to forgo any initial questions about his intentions or desires.

There is no strain, no furrowed brow or frowning lips, when she sleeps. There is only peace. Her face is soft, pale skin and pinkened cheeks and ripe lips. Not pretty, not truly, but beauty is a strange thing. She is magnificent. She always has been. A sight to behold. All too often mocked or overlooked or underestimated. Even he made that folly in the beginning. But time has made a concerted effort to knock all his preconceived notions of, well, _everything_ , right into the dirt. Beginning with his idea of beauty, of courage, of truth and honor and loyalty.

Brienne’s body does not lend itself to softness. She will never be the wilting flower that blooms for the sun and quiets itself for the moon, closing its thin petals against the harshness of the wind and the world. Rather, she is a tree, sturdy and rough, occasionally bending but never breaking. She is splendor, her strength and character and certainty. And though she is hard-headed as a mule, her stubbornness reflected in her square chin and the firm set of her mouth, it is her tenacity that keeps her planted against the harsh winds that blow from every direction in an effort to knock her down.

Love snuck up on him, in a fashion he never expected and hadn’t prepared for. As far as Jaime knew, his heart was already lost, given away when he was a child, kept and confined to one person alone. It is not until some years later, when the mere thought of Brienne brought an equal measure of fondness and worry, that he wonders if his heart was not so earnestly hidden from view. That perhaps he had kept some of it, tucked in some cavern of his chest, and sent it away with her in the bejeweled hilt of a sword meant to keep oaths his family would think him foolish for making in the first place.

And yet, here he is. An age later, and he is in bed with a woman who would sooner knock him on his ass than sweep him off his feet. Who took no pause before telling him that he was a good man, worthy of her praise and trust. Who believed in his honor even when he could not. Who neither accepted nor offered honied words when only truth should be shared. He wasn’t sure she even knew any, too bright and just and honorable was she. Lying was not in her nature. Deception was not her weapon of choice. She preferred blunt combat and sharp, sincere words to anything else. For a man who grew up wondering about the double or triple meaning of anything his family said, it took some adjusting to recognize she would never placate him for the sake of not wounding his pride.

Brienne is an enigma. A force to be reckoned with. A paradigm of truth and glory. A part of him envies her that, another worries how heavy that burden must be. In the end, he hopes she might let him help her, guide her in some things and follow her in others.

Morning light creeps across her face, making the pale white of her eyelashes brighter. He rolls closer to her, reaches a hand out to trace a bruise, a scar, a reminder of the brutality of war and the joy of survival. He presses a kiss to the corner of her lips as his fingers trail down her cheek to cup around the line of her firm jaw. Here she is soft. The full pillow of her mouth is giving; it parts as he kisses her, tongue dabbing at her lower lip, teeth scraping along the top. Her eyes flutter but don’t open. She hums, her brow beginning to furrow as wakefulness creeps in and, with it, uncertainty about the day to come. But he kisses her more, sipping at her mouth, his hand sliding down the curve of her neck, thumb seeking the quickening thump of her heartbeat.

She reaches for him, fingers finding his chest and spreading, palm splayed out across his heart. Her body turns, leaning into him, even as she stays loose-limbed in her sleepy desire.

He could be happy with this. With a few hours of kissing and touching and exploring. Gone was the wine, Tyrion’s terrible game, and the uncertainty of what they are or could be to each other. Now there is only warm, naked skin and soft, searching mouths. They tangle together, her long leg hitched over his hip, arm tucked around him, hand sliding up and down his back. It’s tender and quiet and he wonders if he could live here, just like this, for the rest of his days. The army of the Dead are properly laid to rest, the Night King has met his end, and what few of them are left alive deserve a long reprieve. He pushes away any thoughts of what comes next; of King’s Landing and Cersei and the Targaryen heir. Here, in this moment, there is only Brienne, and he is content with that alone.

She murmurs things in between kisses. What time is it? Should they get up? Sansa will need her soon. Tyrion is probably wondering where he’s gone to. Jon will want to speak to her. All things that can wait one kiss more. Her voice is quiet, not nearly as expectant of answers as it usually is. A passing attempt at convincing him and herself that duty comes first. And it will, eventually. But for right now, his duty is her. It’s showing her she’s wanted and needed and that he is who wants and needs her, who she wants and needs in return. As if she might forget.

He slows their already slow kisses to a near stop. He steals a few more, staring at her, watching brilliant blue eyes slowly open. They wrinkle at the corners as she adjusts to how bright the room has gotten. Morning is well upon them and he doubts anyone has not noticed the absence of her, the Lady Stark’s shadow. He should let her free, tell her he won’t be disappointed if she leaves him to return to her duties. But that would be a lie. He would be disappointed. And he’s not above begging her to ignore her responsibility to spend more time with him. He may be a better man these days, but he is selfish enough to hold onto her as long as she’ll let him, and if it takes some convincing, he’ll do that too.

She stares back at him. “We lived,” she says, and a brilliant grin forms. Her cheeks are ruddy and her lips are plump, her chin is red from his beard, and her eyes have never been bluer.

“We lived,” he agrees, and he knows he looks just as ridiculously dopey as Bronn and Pod and Tyrion have each told him he is around her. But he can’t bring himself to care. His heart feels light, lighter than it ever has before. He cups her cheek and runs his thumb along the arch. “Stay with me?”

A silly question, he imagines. After all, this is her bed, and she can’t avoid her work forever. But he’s not sure he means just now. In fact, he knows he doesn’t. As much as he wants these few moments, this morning, the rest of this day, he wants more too. He wants tomorrow and the day after. He wants as much time as she’ll give him. Until he’s old and gray and useless. And he wants after that too. When he’s nothing more or less than a lap for his grandchildren to sit themselves upon and a hand for her to hold.

Her smile softens into something else. Not wistful and surprised over their shocking triumph, but warm and quiet and _his_. A smile that only he has seen, will ever see, and she leans in. She presses a kiss to his lips, her callus-roughened hand sliding from his neck to his chest. “I will,” she tells him. An oath. Said with the same weight and certainty as ever.

In a few minutes or hours, she will leave his side to bathe and dress, joining Sansa to do her duty. But in the days and nights to come, she will return. She will stand with him in meetings, sit with him for meals, walk with him through the courtyard, lend her hands in rebuilding the stone walls of Winterfell. She will share his bath and bed and even their clothes will find themselves exchanging hands. And many mornings after, he will find himself the same way. The first to stir, watching her as the sun climbs her soft, sleeping face, kissing her awake, knowing today is not their last day. Far from it, in fact. Today is just one day. And they will have so many more.


	2. a hoarse whisper "kiss me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a hoarse whisper, "kiss me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place directly after 8x03, totally ignores 8x04 and past

Brienne bleeds.

He knew she could bleed. She is by no means one of the Gods. Too earnest, too gullible, too kind to be a God. He’s seen her bruised and bloody before. Seen her at her worst, just as she’s seen him. But this feels different. Death had not merely knocked at the doors of Winterfell, it had brought down the walls. He can still feel their decaying, clawing hands reaching and grabbing at him, trying to drag him under, tear his hammering heart from his chest and eat it where his eyes can see. But they lived. He and Brienne and Podrick and even Tyrion, locked away in the cavernous crypts.

They lived, but not without injury.

Brienne bleeds.

She doesn’t complain. Doesn’t whimper or whine. She doesn’t even tell him about it. It isn’t until he finds her in her room, sitting in a chair, her armor gently placed on a table, her shirt rucked up, a bowl of crimson water in reach, a rag pressed flat against a weeping tear along her ribs.

She startles at his entrance, so surprised she doesn’t drop her shirt back in place to hide her bare skin and the torn flesh beneath it. Courtesy demanded a knock, some warning of his arrival, but he finds no room for courtesy now. In a world freshly ravaged by death. He had gone seeking her company and neither a door nor politeness would keep him from it. A part of him wonders if knocking might have been preferable to seeing what he is now. A stark reminder of mortality.

His heart climbs up into his throat. He’s seen much worse. His own hand shorn from his wrist; the bloody, diseased stump left behind to rot right under his nose. But there is something sobering about seeing Brienne— _his_ Brienne—so noble and strong and magnificent, defying every expectation the world puts in front of her, injured in a way that could have been fatal. Could have stolen her away from him before he ever had a chance to... To what?

“It’s just a scratch,” she says. Quick and simple, a blunt dismissal. “Hardly worth a stitch. It’ll close on its own.”

He says nothing, simply stares.

She drops her gaze to where his eyes have wandered, seems to remember how much of her pink skin is in view, and a ruddy redness climbs her throat and face. It makes the white-blonde of her hair even more shocking. The fire isn’t helping, sending shadows playing across her face and in the hollows of her neck. For a moment, she looks angry, defensive, ready to fight. But then, she blows out a heavy breath, and her shoulders slump. She’s exhausted.

He closes the door behind him and crosses the room. His footsteps sound loud and heavy in the sudden quiet of the room, absent of anything but the crackling of the fire and their breathing. There is a salve on the table and clean fabric to cover her wound. He reaches for her hand, still pressed close to her body. He tugs at the very tips of her fingers until she loosens her grip and lets her hand fall away, taking the blood and water-soaked rag with her.

She’s right. It doesn’t need a stitch, not quite. But it’s raw and ragged and a blight on her otherwise soft skin. Her hands are rough with calluses, a story of sword-wielding, but the thin skin across her ribs is soft as a feather. His mouth aches to taste it, to press a whisper of kisses along her side, from the faint curve of her breast to the subtle flare of her hip. To taste sweat-salted skin on his lips, his tongue, to trace it with his own rough fingers.

He kneels beside her, wipes away blood and water, gently rubs the salve across her, and covers it with a clean bandage. He’s already reminding himself to check on it, on her, in a few hours, to make sure it’s clean, that its closing right, that there’s no lingering infection that might try to steal her away like a dead man’s sword has already failed to.

Tomorrow, the dead will be laid on pyres and fed to the fire, their spirits free to seek out whichever Gods will have them. Tonight, the survivors live and breathe and sleep in a graveyard. And yet, here, in the warmth of her room, listening to her breathe, knowing that as much as she bleeds, she heals, he feels so very alive. So grateful to be so.

She hasn’t lowered her shirt, but that may have something to with how his fingers linger on her skin, above and below the bandages.

“You needn’t worry. I will be okay,” she tells him, but her voice is low, a quiet quaver to it that tells much more than she would like revealed.

“I know.” He looks up then, catches her eyes, the furrow of her brows, the softening of her usually-mulish mouth. “You’re too stubborn for anything else.”

She scoffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “If death wanted me--”

“It does,” he says. “It would have taken you a thousand times if you let it. But you didn’t.”

“Yes, well...” Her eyes fall to her lap. “I seem to remember you helped with that... once or twice.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Are you thanking me for my heroic deeds, Ser?”

He expects her to snarl at him, to show the same irritation he’s become so fond of eliciting in her. Instead, she looks at him with guileless eyes, a blue so deep he might happily drown.

“You were heroic. You know that, don’t you? What you did... Coming here, with nothing and no one, unsure how any would receive you...”

“I hoped...” His brow furrows. “I hoped I might have at least one ally here I could turn to. And I suppose I was right.”

“Lord Tyrion--”

“My brother loves me. I’ve never doubted that. But he isn’t who I came here for. He isn’t who I dreamt of each night I traveled the long road.” He stares at her searchingly. “You are the most exhaustingly noble person I have ever met. You put to shame every knight I’ve ever heard of, ever admired, ever wanted to be like. And while I would like to say that I am even half as noble to come here in defense of every innocent person before and beyond us, the truth is likely far more selfish.”

Her gaze becomes hooded, falling to his shoulder and then past it. “If the army of the dead overcame us, there is only one direction left to go... King’s Landing would only survive so long.”

“Yes, it would. And I would be here. I would die here. I traveled that road knowing that I would likely fall out there and join the army of the dead like so many others.”

“And yet, you didn’t. You survived... And now a war is on the horizon.”

“And I should likely die in that one as well.” He stares at her, the fan of her white lashes against pale skin and pink cheeks. “There is only so much luck a one-handed knight has.”

“You think too lowly of yourself. You fought well. Or you wouldn’t be here now.”

“Here alive, or here in your bedchambers?”

Her eyes finally rise to meet his. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I think you do.” He stares at her searchingly. “You think I came here to keep the dead from marching on King’s Landing? For what, for Cersei?”

She flinches but her gaze doesn’t leave him.

“Cersei told the Mountain to kill me, did I tell you that? When I told her I was leaving, that I would keep my oath, she was going to let him bash my skull in for deserting her.”

“But she didn’t.”

“No, she didn’t. Small miracle, that.” He clenches his teeth a moment. “I asked myself why I left. Some misplaced sense of duty perhaps. A last-chance grab at nobility and honor. But then I remembered a conversation I had with Bronn once. He asked me how I wanted to die. And most knights, they would probably say they wanted to die doing something memorable. Something that others would write songs of. Something that people would talk about for ages to come. Ser Jaime Lannister, the man who saved the world from the Night King and his dead army. But the truth of it is, I never wanted to die in some vain show of glory. I am vain and I’ve had glory. But death... That I wanted to share with only one person. That I wanted to be my own. To die in the arms of the woman I love would be a greater death than I likely deserve. But if the world was going to end, then I was going to have that at least. If not her arms, then at least fighting by her side.”

Brienne stares at him, a tiny furrow to her brow.

“You’re not stupid, Brienne. I know you understand what I’m saying.”

She shakes her head. “Surely you jest.”

“I wouldn’t jest about this.” He frowns. “You think me that cruel?”

“ _No_...” She scowls. “I just don’t understand why you would... It doesn’t make sense to me.”

He smiles then, slow and sure. “We don’t get to choose who we love.”

Brienne bites her lip and turns away, as if she can’t bare to look at him now, to consider what he says.

“I’m not asking for it in return... I don’t expect you to...” The words crowd in his throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow. “You would be a mad woman to even consider...”

Her gaze skitters back to him. “For a man ready and willing to die, you certainly fought well.”

“Perhaps I was hoping there might be something worth fighting for.” He licked his lips. “I didn’t come here to confess these things to you.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I was worried.” He glanced at the bandages once more. “Clearly I had reason to be.”

“I told you, it’s just a scratch. It’s hardly with the effort of...” Her voice stutters as his fingers stroke along her ribs. She watches, wide-eyed, as he stands from his crouch, looming over her in a way he could never do when they were both standing, tall as she is.

Her head tips back against her chair, showing off the length of her neck, where bruises pepper her milky skin.

His face is so close that he can feel her breath on his chin. “It’s worth the effort.”

Her eyes bounce around his face, as if searching for a lie, a jest, a cruel jab hidden somewhere there. But there is none to find. She takes a breath and says in a soft voice, “Jaime--”

He kisses her.

His eyes stay open long enough to watch hers close, to remind himself of who he is kissing. The only other pair of lips he’s ever shared besides Cersei’s. And they are soft. Warm and still, unsure in a way that is wholly sweet. Her hand raises, fingertips brushing his cheek and then dragging down, scraping through the beard he’s grown to ward of the cold. His hand leaves her side and climbs to her neck, knuckles dragging along the curve, until he’s cupping her cheek, the teasing glance of her hair brushing his wrist.

He breaks away for just a moment, panting into her mouth, as he mumbles her name.

She makes a noise and leans in, pulling at his chin, wanting more.

He smiles as he kisses her, as she kisses him, as her other hand sinks into his hair and yanks his head so close their teeth briefly knock together. He laughs, warm and happy, and he brushes his thumb against her cheek. The angle is awkward, a pressure pulling on his back from how he has to lean down, with no second hand to brace him on the chair. It becomes a back and forth in his mind of wondering if it’s worth the pain to keep kissing her here or if he should risk drawing her back to reality, lest she realize who she is kissing and change her mind.

It’s her that makes the ultimate decision.

She leans up a little too high, her ribs pull, and she grunts.

He leans back, realizes what’s happened, and frowns.

Brienne shakes her head. “This would be easier on the bed.”

His eyebrows arch, though he’s not entirely sure why he’s surprised at her boldness. Then again, Brienne is bold in many things, but intimacy is not usually one of them. There is a shyness to her that most would not expect. It seems it has fled from her for a time, however. As she pushes herself up from the chair, wincing and pressing a hand flat to her side, before she strides past him to the bed.

He watches her take a seat, his mouth dry as she removes her boots and kicks them away before shuffling up the bed.

“Well?” she asks, impatient even as her face and neck flushes.

He stares at her a moment longer, and then he’s removing his own boots. Not easy with only one hand, but he has had some practice. He takes a seat on the bed next to her, his back against her hip as he faces away from her. “Are you sure?” he wonders. “We don’t have to... I don’t expect you to...” For a man well known for being charming, he finds his tongue tied now, when he needs it at its loosest.

“If I didn’t want you in my bed, I wouldn’t have invited you to it.” Her voice is low and firm, though he can feel a thread of shakiness in her body pressed against him.

He turns, and reaches an arm past her, his golden hand against her hip.

Her gaze falls to it. “I still think a hook would be more practical.”

“I’ll be sure to let Gendry know he should add that to his duties.”

She shoves the sleeve of his shirt up to find the laces of his prosthetic. “Do you need it?”

“The hand or the imposter that’s replaced it?”

She runs her finger along one lace, drawn so tight against his forearm that it aches. “It doesn’t bother me. But if it bothers you... if you need it covered...”

He feels a catch in his throat and his eyes burn for a moment, before he can blink the heat away. “I don’t need it.”

Not the hand, gold or otherwise. He can just as easily hold her with the other. It’s not easy. There are many downsides to not having both. But he’s survived the loss of it, and he will continue to do so. The gold has always been for appearances. But it’s saved his life a time or two, fending off an incoming blade when it must. Here though, in the warmth of her bed, with no enemy knocking at the door, there is no need for it. Not unless her eyes would rather not set on the stump beneath.

He shouldn’t be surprised that she accepts him, that his disfigurement gives her no pause. And yet, he is used to scorn and disgust and disappointment.

She unlaces his prosthetic and removes it carefully, laying it aside before she reaches for his arm, rubbing her thumbs against the lines left behind by the laces, crisscrossing his skin. She’s tender with him, in a way he has always longed for, gentle and soothing. He watches her, firelight dancing across her face, and his chest feels tight, his heart swollen.

“Kiss me,” he says, asks, hopes, his voice a hoarse whisper.

She looks up, meets the intensity of his gaze with worry and wonder. And then she leans in, tugging at his arm.

They meet in the middle and he sinks into it. His forehead presses flat to hers, his mouth shaking as it meets the tentative stroke of her own. He loves her. In a way he never expected. He’s not sure when it began, but it feels like both a lifetime and just the beginning. If he looks back on their journey together, he knows there were times that it was blatant, obvious, when he watched her with a yearning he couldn’t yet put words to. All the times he had to watch her go and ached to follow. She is not Cersei. She is the antithesis of his sister. And he loves her more for it.

They sink down to the bed on their sides, facing each other. They’re both tired and injured. Enough that he knows it won’t go past kissing, not tonight. But there is a promise in the way she touches him, pulls at him, draws him deeper and closer, that tells him this is not the only night he will share a bed with her. For now, he sips at her mouth, sinks into her touch, and lets himself be happy. He’s lived, and so does she.

Brienne bleeds, as only the living still do. She is a knight, a warrior, and this won’t be the last time she sheds blood to prove it. He only hopes that when she does, he will join her on the battlefield as well as in the aftermath. To soothe her and himself, to take comfort, to find respite in the only thing he can guarantee. That he will love her for as long as she will have him.


	3. routine kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fully ignores anything after 8x03

It starts innocently enough. Brienne tells him to do something, in that no-nonsense voice of hers, a demand that he help Podrick with something or other. With Brienne, there is rarely a request, more often an order. Jaime finds he doesn’t hate it. He’s indulgent, if anything.

So, he says, rather snarkily, “As my lady commands.” Passing her by, he pops a daring kiss on her cheek, laughing lightly as he keeps walking, far out of reach of her irritable swipe at him. He knows her face is red, that her skin turns cherry against her will, and that warms him even more.

It becomes a game of sorts. When she sends him off with some new task, he finds a way to kiss her cheek before he goes. Sometimes he pretends he won’t or he’s forgotten, but that’s only so she’ll drop her guard long enough that he can sneak in.

Her skin is soft under his lips, and especially warm where her cheeks turn red. He wonders how deep the flush goes, hidden as it is by the collar of her jerkin. Does it paint her chest or all down her front? Would it crawl as low as her navel or lower still? Could he follow that pink spill right into the golden glory between her thighs? He wants to.

Sometimes, he thinks about lingering. About wrapping an arm around her waist and letting his mouth travel from her cheek to her throat and on and on until he reaches her toes. But even the barest of kisses on her cheek has her waving him off. Perhaps, he thinks, he should start from the bottom instead. Climb from her ankles up those impossibly long legs, bury himself at her sweet centre, make her cry out his name as she grows softer and softer under his hungry mouth.

In time, she stops swatting at him. Whether it’s because she knows how much he likes poking the bear, so to speak, or because she’s simply resigned herself to it, he’s not sure. What he is sure of is that he likes it too much to stop.

Tarth has become home to him now, and he is no stranger to the people that live there. He’s sure there are many that would happily see him never set foot on the island again, but for the most part, he has been accepted. The children are often drawn to the sparring yard to see him and Brienne take arms against each other. Besmirched reputation or not, he is a knight, and it always demands questions and storytelling. He can’t spin a tale quite like his brother, but he does well enough. They always ask for more. They want to know about mad-king Aerys, the white walkers, if he battled the Night King himself, how he fought off a bear one-handed. He takes liberties with some things, as most storytellers do. Brienne corrects him sometimes. She likes to hear his stories, but if they happen to involve her, she is quick to show modesty where he is just as eager to embellish. Jaime tells stories of her and her bravery often. Partly because she won’t and partly to see how some of the girls light up and turn to look at Brienne with the sort of awe that she deserves.

As days turn to weeks and weeks to months, he finds himself quite dedicated to the idea of living out the rest of his life on Tarth. That he should spend his days sparring with Brienne would be a welcome respite, he thinks. While there are some aspects that he would change, adjust as it were, he is quite content.

Of course, as soon as he realizes this, something changes.

It’s mid-morning. Brienne has tasked him and Podrick with a few things, but she’s distracted, her mind elsewhere. Guests are arriving on Tarth today. Lord Selwyn announced it weeks ago, but Jaime can hardly remember who they are or why they’re coming. His duties on Tarth are very different to what they might have been in King’s Landing. Tywin would have reminded Jaime the importance of their visitors and the impression he must make. As an honored guest of Brienne’s, Jaime’s only requirement is that he uphold her good name, help out where it’s needed, and show gratitude when it’s warranted.

So, as per each morning, after Brienne has told him his duties for the day, he kisses her. Only this time, she leans into it. Enough that his arm has to reach around her waist to hold her steady, her body pressing against his own in a way that he welcomes even if it surprises him. He doesn’t pull back right away. Rather, he lets his forehead rest against her temple.

Worry is quick to swell. “Are you well?” he wonders, his hand squeezing her hip.

She covers his hand with her own and squeezes his fingers. “I’m well.”

He doesn’t believe her. So, he holds her a moment longer, breathes in the scent of her mixed with the salty ocean breeze. She continues to lean into him, lets him bear the brunt of her weight. He says her name in a whisper, quiet and concerned. It wakes her.

She pulls away, clears her throat, and smooths her hands down the front of her jerkin. “Our guests will be here soon. I should be ready to greet them.” She glances at him. “You’ll be with Podrick?”

He nods. “I will.” He watches her face, searching for some reason behind her behaviour. While he’s happy for it, he can’t help but wonder why she looks so unsure, so uncharacteristically worried.

As she goes to leave, he reaches for her hand. She stops but doesn’t turn around to face him. He rubs his fingers along her knuckles, still a little swollen from a fight yesterday morning, when she’d cracked her fist across her opponent’s cheek to knock some sense into him. There’s something heavy in his stomach, a warning he can’t quite understand. Things have been going so smoothly of late. The end of the war brought more peace than he could’ve ever expected. In Jaime’s experience, a dead monarch only brought more trouble and confusion. But, for the time being at least, everyone seemed content.

When Brienne said she was going home, he saw no reason not to follow. Winterfell was not where he was meant to be; King’s Landing was haunted with the mistakes of his past and the ghosts of his children; and Casterly Rock had not been home since he was a boy of five and ten. No, the only home that made sense was wherever Brienne decided to be. Truth be told, if she had told him she was staying in Winterfell, he would have adapted. He would have complained, often and loudly, but he would have stayed. Luckily for him, she chose to return to Tarth, to her father, so she could learn what it meant to eventually become the Evenstar.

Jaime loves Tarth. The weather is mostly pleasant, not too warm or cold. There are storms, but those are the days he sees the resilience of the island’s people most. He could, and has, spent hours staring out at the sea, such an entrancing shade of blue that the only thing more beautiful is Brienne’s eyes. Coming here has been a balm to his weary soul. The people argue over silly things; land and livestock and money. But they trust their Evenstar to be just and accept whatever ruling is handed down that they could not come to on their own. In a way, it is a much smaller, less terrible, version of King’s Landing. Not nearly as hot and nowhere near as corrupt.

Lord Selwyn is a good man. He would have to be to have raised a knight as honorable as Brienne. He’s even taller than she is, broad-shouldered with a barrel chest. He would’ve made a formidable soldier on the battlefield, Jaime imagines. Thankfully, that’s not where Jaime meets him. Instead, he gets to see the Evenstar at his kindest, embracing his daughter every chance he gets. It’s clear, when they first arrive, that Lord Selwyn never thought to see Brienne again, spoken by the tears in his eyes and the choked voice that gives way to her name. He clutched her hard to his chest, as if she were a little girl that needed him to shelter her from the rest of the world. Jaime wants to tell him that she doesn’t need protecting; she’s faced the world and she came out on top. But he also knows that she’d faced pain and suffering while away. Battered and bruised from battle and a long trek north, she returns home not quite the same girl she was before. But Lord Selwyn welcomes her wholeheartedly, and both Pod and Jaime are thankfully included in that.

Now, some months later, Lord Selwyn is still just as doting on Brienne, but he seems more secure in the fact that she is home and plans to stay that way. Each day, he introduces Brienne to the duties she’ll be expected to take on in his absence. While her father is in good health and there shouldn’t be any reason that Brienne takes on the Evenstar mantle soon, it’s clear that Selwyn wants to make up for lost time.

As Jaime watches Brienne leave, headed for the docks to meet their guests, he finds himself wondering what’s changed. What would make her sink into him with such sincere vulnerability? It scares him. Brienne is strong, much stronger than anyone else he knows. She doesn’t falter often and when she does, she’s quick to pull herself back together. He likes that she leans on him, he’s grateful for it, but it worries him.

He’s distracted the rest of the morning. His mind elsewhere, wondering if she’s okay, if she’ll tell him what it is that’s weighing on her, if there’s something he can do to make it better.

It’s not until dinner, a feast for their guests, that it begins to make sense.

These guests are not mere guests. They have come with a purpose. And that purpose is Brienne.

Jaime shouldn’t be surprised. Brienne is an honorable knight who has overcome the terrible slandering of her name by those who were obviously far less talented and resentful of the fact. She is strong and young and, though not beautiful by many standards, beautiful in another way. If nothing else, she has astonishing eyes. And ridiculously long legs. And strong arms, fit enough to hold or be held by. She’s warm and kind and tender-hearted. She’d sooner lay down her life than take that of an innocent. She always does the right thing, even if it costs her. She’s stubborn and loud and infamously unbending. She could argue with a tree and win. She’s proud and smart and so very skilled. And by the Gods, he wishes that others would see her like he does, if only because she deserves their awe and gratitude in spades. At the same time, he hopes they won’t, because to see it is to become enthralled, and to do so is to never want to leave her side.

His name is Eddard. And Jaime has to bite his tongue not to point out that the last well-known Eddard had lost his head, and he might be keen to help this one do so as well.

Eddard is a few years older than Brienne, a full head shorter, and not nearly as broad. He looks small, pathetically so, sitting near her. He has dark eyes set in a narrow face, a weak chin, black hair, and a long nose. He isn’t ugly, but he isn’t quite handsome either. He’s forgettable, Jaime decides. His only redeeming quality is that he doesn’t look cowed by Brienne. He doesn’t shrink or scowl or sneer at her. If he had, Jaime’s not sure what he might’ve done. Used it to his advantage, perhaps. Convinced Lord Selwyn that Brienne hardly deserves a husband that would treat her so. But Eddard is polite and shows no outward sign of disappointment in Brienne. Still, he isn’t enraptured by her either. And isn’t that sad? Because he should be. If he’s so lucky as to be her future husband, he should be kissing the ground at her feet in gratitude.

Jaime leaves the feast early. He can’t stomach the food and finds the company even less enjoyable. He returns to his room and paces the floor. He hadn’t expected this. A foolish thing, that. Of course Brienne would have suitors. She’s the Evenstar’s daughter. She’s a war hero and an accomplished knight. But somehow, the idea that he might see her married off never occurred to him. He’d thought to spend the rest of his life here, on Tarth, with her. Kissing her cheek each morning, wishing for more, wanting for so much more. Perhaps that is the most foolish part of it all. That he was willing to stay, to tie himself to her, to live out his days by her side, even when he couldn’t have her. What now? Does he leave? Run back to King’s Landing or Casterly Rock? He can’t stay. Can’t watch another woman he loves married off to someone else while he has to stay in the shadows, pining and wanting and loving from afar. He can’t. And he won’t.

There’s a knock at the door and he nearly misses it. He’s not sure how long he’s been pacing, thinking, wondering. He opens the door expecting to find Pod. He finds Brienne instead. She’s chewing her lip nearly raw. She doesn’t wait for an invitation, merely shoving the door open wider and stepping past him.

He stares at her a moment before closing the door and then wipes his hand on his breeches. “Are you all right?”

“Stop asking me that!” Her voice comes out higher, shriller than usual. “ _No_. I’m not all right. My father wrote a letter and now I have a suitor.” She balls her hands into fists and begins pacing the same pattern he’s just finished. “I didn’t know. I had no idea until he said something this morning. If I had, I would’ve…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“What? What would you have done?” He stares at her. “This is your duty, isn’t it? To marry, have children, become the Evenstar.”

She pauses, frowns, and stares at him. “Duty? Is that all I am? An expectation placed on me by reason of birth?” She shakes her head. “I’m a knight. I’m a soldier, a warrior. I— I protected a king, I kept my oaths, I fought the white walkers, and I survived every terrible, awful thing that happened in between. Bloody Mummers and bears and pink dresses and King’s Landing and The Hound and the freezing _bloody_ snow. I fought wars and I killed people and I buried more. I am more than my duty as a daughter.”

Jaime stares at her a long moment, his chest swelling with pride and love and admiration. “I know.”

Her chin wobbles before she can stop it. “I don’t want this. I don’t want him. I don’t…” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I came here because this is my home. Because I missed my father and Tarth and I wanted to do the right thing…”

“I know.”

“But this isn’t right. This isn’t…” She blinks quickly against the sting of tears. “Why did you follow me?”

His brow furrows.

“Why did you come here? Why did you stay?” She stares at him searchingly. “You could’ve gone anywhere. You could’ve joined Tyrion. You could’ve gone home. But you didn’t. You came here. _Why?_ ”

He swallows tightly, so many words crowding his throat that it’s hard to pick which to use. Finally, he settles on, “I did.”

She frowns.

“You are my home.”

Brienne’s brow furrows slowly, her mouth puckering in an unbecoming purse of denial.

“Do you think I kiss you for a laugh? It makes me laugh, I won’t deny it. The way you swat and complain and sigh at me. As if you couldn’t lay me out on the ground if you really wanted to. As if I could ever stand a chance against you if you wanted me gone.” He watches her face at the slow-dawning. “I kiss you because you let me. Because I want to. Because your cheek is the closest I’ll ever get to your mouth. Because it’s more than I deserve.”

She swallows.

“I came here because I couldn’t imagine the rest of my life without you. Because I’m a better man when we’re together. Because when I ask myself what would make me happy, the only answer I ever find is you.”

Her chin wobbles again, her lips trembling. “Jaime…” she says, a whisper.

“I don’t care about duty. I should, as a knight. I should care quite a lot about what it means. As the heir to Casterly Rock, I should care about lineage and legacy and doing as my father would want. But I don’t. I don’t care that Eddard traveled all this way in the hopes of marrying you. I would relieve his head from his shoulders if I didn’t think it would cause you and your father trouble and possibly bring about another war that neither of us should have to fight anytime soon.” He walks toward her, footsteps measured, as if scared he might spook her. “All I care about is you. And I know it’s selfish. I know it’s self-serving and terrible and that I should have learned enough by now to say different. But _fuck duty_. Fuck anything that demands you marry for any reason other than that you want to. That you love them. That they _deserve_ you.”

“And do you?” She stares down at him, so close now that he can feel the warmth of her body sinking into him. “Do you deserve me?”

“No,” he says frankly. “But I would spend the rest of my life trying to.”

They’re chest to chest, rocking just a little, like a boat caught on a gentle wave. He reaches for her, his palm cupping her cheek.

“I don’t have much to offer. I’m an old lion with one hand and a terrible reputation. But I would love you until we’re old and gray and for every second after.” He searches her eyes. “Will you have me? Brienne…”

The waiting is awful. From the moment he finishes his question, it feels as if time has slowed. He expects rejection. Not because he doesn’t believe Brienne cares for him. But because duty is heavy and he’s not sure he is a better prospect than Eddard. And though Brienne doesn’t want to do her duty, she has always done so, regardless of how it might pain her.

“I would.”

He’s not sure he’s heard her right. He almost asks her to repeat it. “You…?”

She covers his hand and draws it down, pressing a kiss to his palm that is utterly tender. She closes her eyes a moment, her lashes a pale white against her cheeks. “I have loved you… I don’t know how long. Too long, perhaps. Longer than I can remember.” She folds their hands together, cradling his own beneath hers. “Having fought with you, against you, and by your side… I would be honored, I think, to share my life with yours.”

Jaime hasn’t been shocked many times in his life, but Brienne does have a way of surprising him. This, at least, is a pleasant surprise. “Who will tell Eddard a one-handed Kingslayer has stolen his bride to be?” He reaches his right arm out and wraps it around her, his hook tucked around the belt of her jerkin. “And how long before your father forgives our rudeness so we can be married?”

Her mouth pulls up at the corners. “He’ll be happy, I think. He was worried your daily kisses might scare Eddard off. Now we won’t need to make excuses.”

“No. No excuses.” He tips his head back. “Now I can kiss you whenever and wherever I please.”

“Wherever?” she asks, her voice low and warm.

“In the yard… the solar… on the cliffs overlooking the water…” He pulls her closer. “Your cheek, your neck, your wrists… Behind your knees and up your thighs… I’ll bury my mouth in your center until the only words you’ll remember are ‘please’ and ‘Jaime.’”

Her breath stutters. “Jaime—”

“Yes, just like that.” He kisses her, firm and wanting. He pulls his hand free of hers just to curl it behind her neck and draw her closer. It’s a frenzy at first, desperately trying to make up for lost time. But also, a reminder, a promise, that this is real. She is his and he is hers, and soon enough, they always will be.

Eddard will return home, wifeless. And Jaime will ask Lord Selwyn for Brienne’s hand, as is custom, even if Brienne’s blessing was all he truly needed. They will marry, cheerfully, and live out their days on Tarth. Their children will grow there, blonde with his eyes or hers, stubborn and proud and all so very skilled with a sword. And every morning, as she tells him his tasks for the day, Brienne will present her cheek for a kiss, knowing and expectant. Sometimes, he will steal one from her lips while she’s mid-sentence, and she will swat at him as he laughs. Theirs will be a good life. A long life. Well spent, awash in love and happiness. He could not ask for more.


	4. top of head kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be far-fetched to believe war would never find them again.

It would be far-fetched to believe war would never find them again. Tarth brought a respite from the greed of men, allowing them to live their lives freely, joyfully, ignorant of what the Lords and Ladies of the six kingdoms busied themselves with. So, it came as a surprise when Jaime received a raven that banners were being called and both House Lannister and House Tarth were expected to respond.

This was how he found himself astride a horse, staring across a field of yellow-green grass, wisping side to side from a dreary wind, a rush of waves crashing against rock not far in the distance. A salty sea breeze should have been a familiar welcome, but these were not the shores he wished to be on. The skies were grey, and the scent of coming rain was cold on the air. Back home, he could imagine blue sky and clear waters. It seemed the weather was anticipating a fight, and it would be a messy one. The mud would turn treacherous quick, easy for horses and men alike to slip on.

Months ago, when Jaime had first received word of what was happening, it would be a lie to say he hadn’t momentarily considered not responding at all. They had plenty of food stocked up, their island comfortably fortified. They could send word that they would prefer to remain an independent voice in whatever happened. But Jaime had already known what Brienne would say to that. They weren’t craven, and if someone was threatening the well-being of their King, then they would answer their attack swiftly. Jon was a good king. Far more patient than Jaime could ever be. He had none of the Targaryen rage, madness, or arrogance. His temper was a long fuse, slow to light, only sparked when friend or family was harmed, and even then he tried to hear the council of those closest to him. But, for all that Jaime admired Jon and honored him as his king, he was not the reason Jaime was here now.

At five-and-ten, Duncan was their oldest. He loved books and sword-fighting in equal measure. He was warm and friendly and had his mother’s blue eyes and his father’s handsome face. He was tall, imposingly so, especially for his age. Lanky with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he looked a far sight more intimidating than he was. For he was still just a boy. On the cusp of manhood, yes, but a boy all the same. He was Jaime’s little boy. The same that he had cradled and sung to and danced around the echoing stone halls of their home when he would not stop crying for anything. The same who proudly proclaimed he was a lion and would roar at people in greeting for the first five years of his life. The same who gripped his father’s stubbed wrist without complaint or revulsion and who agreed that a hook would be more practical than any fancy hand could be. Jaime’s little lion with his still round cheeks, kissed with freckles.

Duncan adored his Uncle Tyrion and often spent a few summer moons with him in Casterly Rock. When war broke out, it seemed safer for Duncan to stay there than return to Tarth and risk being found. But a siege was laid against the Rock, one from the inside out, and while the Lannister army had managed to sneak Tyrion away, Duncan was not so fortunate.

Brienne had been beside herself when the letter reached them. And Jaime... He couldn’t lose another child. The ghosts of his previous three still haunted him. But this one... It hurt his heart to admit, but there was no denying that his bond with Duncan was different. Having been able to raise him as his own, to be a father and be called so, it had tied him to his boy in a way he hadn’t been able to with the others. He still loved them and missed them, of course. But Duncan was his. The first of his name, of his and Brienne’s making. He had five more that called him father and he would lay his life down for each and every one of them. Publicly, and without shame. But that was not to be today, as the war asked for the blood of many and not just his own.

“They want a parley, m’lord.”

Jaime nodded, his gaze still set ahead, at the men lined up, waiting to fight and die in mud and piss and shit. All for a lord they hardly know, for a reason they knew even less.

“Do you think you should?” Pod wondered.

“Doesn’t have much choice, does he?” Bronn answered, sounding completely unbothered by the day’s events. “Either he parlays, convinces these cunts they’re better off not dying, or we all get ourselves dirty. I don’t know about you, but my fighting days are long behind me. I have three brats at home that prefer my head on my shoulders and a wife that wants it between her legs. I can’t do that if I die fighting someone else’s fight.”

“It’s your fight too, or do you forget which king you swore yourself to?” Gendry reminded. He sat atop a tall, black steed, his war hammer ready and waiting.

“Haven’t forgotten, no. I dragged myself from my warm castle, didn’t I?” His eyebrows arched. “Anyway, if you ask me, we’re wastin’ our breaths here. Where’s that she-wolf wife of yours? Reckon she and her little dagger could end this right quick.”

Gendry rolled his eyes rather than rise to the bait.

Jaime tore his eyes from the dark horse in the distance and turned it on Pod. He wasn’t the young squire he’d once been. Time and life had seasoned him well. He led the Tarth armies honorably. The same army that Brienne and Jaime had helped rebuild at the end of the last war. An army Jaime was proud of, even if he would much rather they had not entered this fight at all. The men at their back would fight until their dying breaths. They would go to their graves believing their sacrifice was worth it. For the son of their Evenstar, the heir they would one day look to. Jaime would have to look on the faces of their wives and children and express gratitude for the life that was given, and it would not be enough.

“Stay with our men. We’ll meet them for their parley, see if we can’t end this here, now.”

“My Lord…” Pod stared at him searchingly. “If Duncan—”

“He’s alive. That’s all that matters now.” Jaime straightened himself and raised his chin. “If anything happens… You tell Brienne…”

Pod smiled, slow and knowing. “I doubt she’ll need me to tell her anything, Ser.”

Jaime half-smiled. “You could be right.” He nodded then. “We’ll return shortly. Keep the men ready.”

“Yes, Ser.”

With Gendry and Bronn in tow, Jaime crossed the field to meet in the center, where a smug little man with crowded teeth and weasel-like features greeted him. “Lannister,” he greeted, casting a dismissive look toward Gendry and Bronn.

“Lord Cray,” Jaime returned. “I’m here in the name of my brother, Lord Tyrion Lannister, whose home you’ve invaded… I believe you already know Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lord Bronn of the Blackwater.”

“Bastards and sellswords, yes, I remember.”

Jaime’s gaze flattened. “Remind me again where the Cray’s _illustrious_ name comes from. I don’t remember hearing about your family in my lessons growing up. In fact, before I received word that you had sacked the Rock, you were a spot of ink low on a page in the back of some book somewhere, forgotten in its lack of, well, anything.”

Cray sat a little taller on his horse and bared his teeth irritably. “I’ll keep this short. Turn your horses around, leave the way you came, and your son will see his next nameday.”

Bronn plucked a dagger from his hip and flipped it across his fingers, startling the lord for a moment, before he began picking his teeth with it. “Not much of an offer, is it?”

Cray sputtered. “We have your _heir_.” He stared at Jaime, lip curling in a sneer. “Not much of one, I must say. The boy begs for his mother.”

Jaime grinned. “Begs, does he? Are you sure you’ve found the right boy? Mine is rather tall, yellow hair, lots of freckles. Loves his mother. Truly, he does. But he was never much for begging… We grow them hardy on Tarth, you see. And he’s a lion at heart.”

“Not this one. Been crying for mum since we found him hiding in a cupboard in the kitchen. Says she’ll come for him and feed us our teeth if we’re not careful.”

Gendry frowned. “Doesn’t sound much like begging.”

“Sounds a lot more like a warning,” Bronn agreed.

“And yet, _Brienne the Beauty_ doesn’t sit before me, does she?” Cray sneered. “Her crippled lion husband does instead. Come to convince me I should give up the Rock, I presume.”

“I don’t care much for the Rock,” Jaime confessed. “I rather prefer the view from Tarth; it’s much prettier.”

“Given your wife, I can’t imagine what you think ‘pretty’ means.”

Jaime’s head tipped thoughtfully. “You seem to like talking about my wife. Is there a reason for that?”

“Suppose I’m still trying to understand why you married the great beast. And how it is you got so many babes on her. How many are you at now? Heard it was six or so, at last count.”

“Seventh is on the way, inn’t it?” Bronn’s brows arched, a cheerful smile tilting his mouth. “Once they got started, they didn’t come up for air much.”

Jaime shrugged. “You learn to appreciate the finer things when you’ve faced the dead and come out alive.”

“You can stay alive if you take my offer,” Cray said. “Go home to your beast of a wife and your children, keep out of this battle, and your boy will be sent home to you once the usurper is removed from the iron throne.”

“Usurper?” Jaime scoffed. “Remind me again where you were when the war against the dead broke out? Because I know where the King was. I know how many lives were lost so that there’s a kingdom for anyone to rule. I don’t remember seeing your face amongst those fighting.”

Cray shifted in his seat. “The usurper will be removed, and a rightful heir will be placed upon the iron throne, as it should be.”

“As if you care one whit who sits on the bloody throne.” Jaime shook his head. “What were you promised then? Casterly Rock? Whoever gave it to you made a mistake. The Rock is my brother’s, and it will remain his until his son comes of age. You remember my brother, don’t you? I heard he wasn’t found when you sacked his home.”

Cray’s jaw clenched. “He’s small enough, escaping wasn’t hard for him. Like a rat fleeing a flood, he got away and he can stay away.”

“Casterly Rock will remain with the Lannisters. My son will be returned to me _now_ , today, and you will tell your army that you are leaving. I will allow you to live, pride wounded but limbs firmly attached, because I’m feeling rather generous. You can tell whoever thinks to challenge King Jon for his seat, that he and his men and his _dragon_ will not be easily removed.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, you will die here. Your men will die here. And before you take your last breath, I will kick your teeth out myself and watch my wife feed them to you.”

Blustering, Cray tilted his chin up high, trying and failing to look imposing. “And just how do you think you’ll accomplish that, Lannister? We outnumber you, and the Rock, as you should well know, is nearly impenetrable.”

“And as you should know, the trick is to begin your fight from the inside out.”

A quickly gaining horse caught Cray’s attention then and he turned to see one of his men hurrying to reach him. “What is it, Beryl?”

“A siege, my lord. They’re sacking the castle.”

“They… What? _Who?_ ”

“Tarth, my lord. Women, hundreds of them. They came up from the tunnels. We were taken unawares. They’ve taken our men hostage.”

“How many?”

“A-All of them, sir. Everybody inside the walls.”

Cray whipped his head around to face Jaime once more. “We are in a _parley!”_

“We are,” Jaime agreed. “I joined you here as a representative of the Lannister family, speaking for my brother and commander of his men. And I can guarantee that the soldiers currently taking back the Rock are not of _his_ army.”

“I still have men outside the walls. I still have your boy!”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

The sounds of shouting could be heard then and everyone shifted to watch a sea of soldiers ride out and circle Cray's waiting army, women astride horses, swords held high. They separated and penned the men in, so close together it was difficult for them to move. The gates of Casterly Rock rose and more warriors spilled out.

“My wife earned a certain reputation in the war,” Jaime said. “Women from all over came to Tarth. They wanted to learn to fight and so Brienne taught them. She inspires a certain level of loyalty, you understand.” He grinned. “I imagine you regret not agreeing to leave on your own.”

“Your boy—”

“Is with my wife.” He nodded past him to two horses riding out to meet the parley. Jaime’s heart beat quick and happy at their approach.

Brienne’s face was flushed pink, her blue eyes narrowed. Beside her, Duncan was chattering away, looking not the least bit worried. He had a few bruises on his face, old from the coloring, and a cut on his cheek that would likely scar. But he looked healthy and whole, and for that Jaime was grateful.

As the horses slowed to a stop, Duncan grinned at the men before him. “Lady Ilana found and freed me. Wouldn’t give me a sword though. Said I was more likely to brain myself than an enemy.” He shrugged. “Reckon she likes me?”

Brienne shook her head, but the look she sent her son was full of affection. “Taken by an enemy for a fortnight and _that_ is the first thing you say to your father?”

Jaime grinned at his son. “I’ve met Lady Ilana’s lover, and I’m afraid you are not _equipped_ for her taste. She prefers a much prettier warrior.”

Duncan shrugged. "Suppose I'll just have to be grateful then."

With a sigh, Brienne gestured for Duncan to join his father before turning her attention to Lord Cray. “Casterly Rock is under my control, to be returned to my good-brother immediately. I have your men, bound, gagged, and surrounded. You have _lost_. Trust that if I had found my son in any worse health than I have, you would be choking on your own bloody teeth right now. The fact that he is mostly unharmed is the only reason you are still breathing, do you understand?”

Cray clamped his mouth shut and scowled at her.

“You are traitors to the Crown, and you will be dealt with as such. I would suggest you direct any subsequent complaints about your coming time with us to someone who is not eager to send you home in pieces.” Pulling on the reins of her horse, she moved past the Lord, nodding her head for her son to follow.

Jaime smiled after her a moment before turning back to the unhappy Lord. “Productive parley, wouldn’t you say?”

* * *

 

**…**

* * *

 

Later, after everything had been properly dealt with, Jaime returned to his tent to find two of his favorite people waiting for him. Exhaustion having caught up, Brienne was fast asleep, an arm tucked under her rounded belly, and a fur folded over her long legs. Jaime watched her a long moment before tearing his eyes away to rest them on his son. Duncan was patiently cleaning his mother’s armor for her, Oathkeeper laid out on a table.

Jaime’s heart climbed up into his throat as he crossed the tent floor and came to a stop just short of his son.

Duncan stood, putting the armor aside gently. “I wasn’t fast enough. I woke late and by the time I realized what was happening, the castle was in disarray. I went looking for Uncle Tyrion, but I was too late. I tried to hide. Not because I couldn’t fight, but because I knew if they had me, they would use me against you… against mother.” He looked sadly in her direction. “I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps that’s foolish. But I knew you would come. Both of you. I knew you would do whatever you could to find me.”

“We would.” Jaime’s voice came out hoarse. For a moment, he could do nothing but remember that year he spent chained and half-broken, lost and alone in Robb Stark’s camp. His father, only willing to offer so much, and so cold and unaffected when he finally returned. “I will always come for you.”

Duncan stared at him searchingly. “I know.” He stepped forward. “That man, Lord Cray, he said you would forfeit or I would die. But I knew he was wrong.”

This time, yes. But Jaime had to wonder, if things had been different, would he have given up everything so long as they returned his son? As a man born and bred of the military, who had served kings and fought wars, and had spent so much of his life in battle, a part of him knew that it would be foolish and wasteful to lay down arms over a single life. He also knew that wars were started over something just as simple. Robert Baratheon went to war for Lyanna Stark after all, and it won him a crown. He had once used Edmure Tully’s love for his son in order to take back Riverrun, without bloodshed. Mostly.

In the end, it came down to so few things. Honor. Love. Family.

“You’re my son. My blood. I would wage a thousand wars and die in every one if it meant you would live.” He reached out, resting his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “And your mother would likely save us both every time.”

Duncan laughed. “She would.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Jaime pulled him forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Duncan’s head. He was tall, certainly, but not enough that Jaime could not lay his affection for him on his crown. Closing his eyes, he held him there, and thought of all the days he had done it before. All the days he had held this boy as he grew, as he lifted him up into his arms and cradled him close. As he led him through the fields outside their home and adjusted his grip on a training sword. As he fed him his favorite foods and wiped the muck from his smiling cheeks. As he read his favorite stories and told him of his own fantastic adventures. His boy. His little Duncan.

“Father?” Duncan reached a hand out, wrapping it around the wrist of his stump. “I’m all right. I promise.”

Tears bit at Jaime’s eyes and he blinked them away swiftly. “I know. Of course you are. We make them hardy—”

“—on Tarth, I know.” Duncan smiled up at him. “I’m a lion too.”

Jaime’s hand cupped the side of his face. “That you are.”

Duncan squeezed his wrist. “I have a tent near Pod. I’ll stay there tonight.” He glanced over at his mother. “Let her know so she doesn’t worry.”

“I will.” Before Duncan could leave, Jaime gave him one last kiss atop his head and then released him.

As the tent flap fell closed once more, Jaime took a moment to compose himself. When he was sure his shaking was under control and the worried knot in his stomach had mostly unraveled, he crossed the floor to his wife. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he stared down at her. With careful strokes of his fingers, he brushed her soft hair off her face and behind her ear. For years, Brienne had been a light sleeper. Any small sound or shift could wake her. But as time went on and war seemed a distant memory, she grew comfortable, trusting that she would not need to wake and face any number of enemies at a moment’s notice. In the time since they had received word of war, and more so since they realized Duncan was taken, she had been sleeping lighter again. Nightmares and worry had her jolting up at all hours. With the return of their son and the exhaustion of the journey to steal him back, she was sleeping deeply. He was grateful for that. There was more to be done, still. This was just one small battle in a much larger war. And he knew Brienne. Pregnant or not, she would be a part of all that was to come.

Drawing a deep breath, he laid himself down beside her, his head resting atop her chest as his hand swept over the rounded curve of her stomach. _Seven_. Ten, if he was being true. But six that still breathed and a seventh to join them. He thought of them all, safe and sound on Tarth. Johanna and Alysanne, their first twins, three and ten now. Then came Kelis, shrieking for all to hear, a lioness from the first breath, just as fierce now at nine. And their twin boys, Galladon and Tyris, six years old and absolute hellions that lived in the sea more than on land. He wondered if their seventh would be a boy or a girl. He would love them either way, of course. But this would be their first child born into a world of war. All the others had only ever known peace. They were all strong and tall and built for a fight, but they had only ever tasted defeat in fighting each other. Grudgingly yielding to their brothers and sisters, to their parents and Pod. He didn’t want them to know the brutality of the battlefield. Not now, not yet. Even Duncan, stolen in the middle of a siege, had only a taste of it, and still it was too much to Jaime’s thinking.

He wanted to hide them away in the tunnels and caves of Tarth. His brave children who would willingly take up arms, even when they were too young to do so. Perhaps his stories had been a folly. Telling them of his adventures, his battles, making a bedtime story of the Night King and the army of the dead. They had grown up believing their brave parents were knights who could slay any enemy. But that wasn’t true, was it? Surely an enemy would come eventually, one they could not slay. He wasn’t ready for it. Wasn’t ready to leave his children or have them leave him. Wasn’t ready to bury Brienne. He might never be. He would much rather he go first. A selfish thought, but he wasn’t sure he could bear it the other way. He didn’t fear death; he never had. He feared loneliness and loss though. He would rather die fighting for them, for something that mattered, for _love_. But to be left behind, to live while they didn’t, that would be a crueler fate.

“You’re thinking quite loudly.” Fingers combed through his hair and he turned his head up to see her, watching him from sleepy blue eyes. “Duncan is fine. Old bruises and cuts. He’s seen worse horsing around in Tarth.”

Jaime nuzzled his face against her chest and breathed her in. “It was dangerous, you joining the fight.”

“I kept my distance through most of it. I’m not eager to birth a child on the battlefield.”

As if they knew they were being spoken of, Jaime felt a kick under his palm and smiled. A girl, he thought. Yes, another fierce little girl with a blonde lion’s mane and eyes as blue as her mother’s, as the waters surrounding their home.

“War is upon us...” Jaime wanted to grab her up and hold her tight but settled for pressing his cheek against her heart. “Another battlefield is around the next bend and the one after it. There’s nothing to be done for it.”

“Mayhaps. Or Jon might crush the rebellion before it gets its feet under it. Dragons tend to do that.”

“He hasn’t ridden Drogon in years. Says it would be dishonorable, a disrespect to the lizard’s mother.”

“He doesn’t need to ride him. Drogon follows Jon wherever he goes, protects him whether he wants it or not. If he rides out to the rebellion, Drogon will follow. All it takes is a word. He doesn’t need to say it, just be ready to if he must. They’ll retreat. They must.”

“We want them to, that doesn’t mean they will.” Jaime stared at her a long moment, taking in the planes of her face, familiar and warm and utterly adoring. “I had hoped we could live out the rest of our lives in peace, but it seems that was not in our future.”

“Peace only lasts for so long. What matters is that we do what is right when that peace is disturbed.” She cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing over the arch. “We will fight for Jon, for our children, for our home and our name. And when it is over, we will find our peace in Tarth again.”

He nodded, even as doubt crowded his mind. Could they be so lucky? There was little point in wondering. The future was upon them and there was nothing to do but greet it as they had before. _Together_.

He ducked his head down to press a kiss to her chest, her skin bare and warm under his mouth. “What will we name her?” His fingers rubbed against her stomach. “Our warrior.”

Brienne smiled, her fingers gently combing through his hair, more silver than blonde now. “What makes you sure it’s a girl?”

“A feeling.”

Humming, she covered his hand with her own. “We will protect her. Just as we have the others.”

“You sound certain, wife.”

“I am.” She tugged on his hair, drawing his eyes to hers. “You would fight a thousand wars for them, you said it yourself.”

“Fighting a war doesn’t guarantee a win.”

“No, but I wouldn’t bet against us.”

He chuckled lightly and tucked his head under her chin. “No, I wouldn’t either.”

“All we can do is our best, Jaime. And trust that it's enough.”

He breathed out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. “I trust that we will face whatever comes together. I could not hope for a better partner to fight by my side. Even if I do plan to beg you keep your distance as often as possible.”

Brienne hummed. “I can’t say I mislike it when you beg.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth and he tipped his head back to see her. His voice was husky as he told her, “If that’s what it takes to keep you off the battlefield these next few months, I would fall to my knees and beg you every morning and twice in the evening.”

Brienne’s cheeks turned a familiar pink and her teeth bit down into her lip. “I might be amenable to that.”

Chuckling warmly, Jaime climbed a little higher, nuzzling her neck and ear as he went. “You were very sneaky today, wife. More devious than usual.”

“Yes, well, I married a lion after all.” She reached up and skimmed her fingers through his silver-blonde hair. “He told me once that war is a terrible thing and it will test me in ways I could never imagine… Motherhood does the same. I find as the years go on and our family grows that I’m more willing to do whatever necessary if it means keeping my people and my children safe. There is still honor in doing what is right even if it does not always follow the rules.”

The tip of Jaime’s nose dragged down the length of Brienne’s, his mouth hovering just short of hers. “I admire your honor and bravery and that pesky need of yours to do what is right in all things. I’ll spend my life trying to emulate it. I’ve found myself wondering more than once what you might do if you were in my position and I find it serves me well. We balance each other, I think. A little Lannister wickedness isn’t a terrible thing, not when there is so much _Tarth_ goodness to help level it all out.”

“There is more good in you than you will ever admit to.” She stared at him knowingly. “It is not purely my influence that makes it so. It is you, at your core. I would not have married you if I didn’t know exactly who you were. If I didn’t love you for the man I know you to be.”

“And I will be forever grateful that you see me as you do.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “But you must know that whatever good is in me, I would ravage the known world if it meant keeping you and our children safe. It’s not an honorable thought, and I hope it never comes to that, but you… You are my world, Brienne. Our children…” His throat tightened. “For a moment, when the raven came and I thought Duncan lost… I wasn’t the man you love. I wasn’t the father that raised him. I was Death itself and my revenge would not be kind or quick or honorable.”

Brienne’s hand found his cheek. “Grief is a terrible thing. And we will become familiar with it again as the war continues. I cannot imagine what it is to lose a child and I hope I never do. We’re lucky, to have Duncan returned to us, to have our home and family alive and well. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know what pain or loss or sacrifice we might face. But I know _you,_ and I know that if the worst comes then I will stand beside you or I will pull you back from whatever madness threatens to steal you away. I _swear_ to you, I will.”

Jaime smiled, even as his mouth trembled. “You would, and I love you for it. I love you for a great many reasons.”

Brienne’s fingers scrubbed down, scratching through his beard. “Oh? Tell me these reasons, I’d like to hear them.”

He laughed lightly, his mouth brushing hers. “Do you hope to distract me, wench?”

“With words first…” She reached a leg around his waist. “And action after.”

Jaime kissed her, his hand buried in her hair. He would tell her all the reasons he loved her with his mouth and his hand and his cock, until exhaustion swept them away, long before he’d finished his extensive list. But he had time to tell her the rest, to add more to it too. In fact, he decided, he would spend all the rest of his days, however many there were, showing and telling his wife all the ways and reasons he loved her.

Quite thankfully, it was a long, love-filled life indeed, for him and Brienne both. And while grief visited here or there, they would see all seven of their children grow and greet their many grandchildren with grateful smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, i know parleys are kinda sacred, but _technically_ brienne and her army were acting independent of the parley and jaime was in the parley as a rep for the lannisters, not tarth. that is how brienne justifies it to herself. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
